He Knows
by gpotter
Summary: My wedding gown is beautiful. It makes me sick every time I look at it.


**_A/N - This is a revised edition of 'No Regrets.' I hated to delete that one, there were really wonderful reviews . . . but I looked back at it and realized it was cliched, crap, and well . . . could have been a lot better. So here's a better (hopefully!) version of it. Please review, I've become very frustrated lately at the lack of reviews. My latest story has gotten over 100 hits in something like 4 days, and only 4 reviews! So please, take 5 seconds and let me know what you thought, I would deeply appreciate it. Thanks!_**

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**_He Knows_**

By: Amanda M.

My wedding gown is beautiful. It's all white silk and tiny, sparkling gems around the neckline, with an even more dazzling tiara that adds to the shimmery effect. Who would have thought? Hermione Granger, a princess in her own right. Yes, it's beautiful. And it makes me sick every time I look at it.

The white silk material slips through my fingers even now, as I slide it into an equally white nylon bag, then hang it on the back of my bedroom door. The very presence of this gown means that it's over - all of the pretending, the secret, late-night trysts - they've all got to end. As they should have ended weeks, months, _years _ago.

Because tomorrow, I'll officially become Mrs. Seamus Finnegan. And I will _not_ be Mrs. Ronal – well, it doesn't matter who I won't be, does it? There isn't anything else to do that might prolong the day, already wrought with visits from well-wishing family members (as well as a certain not so well-wishing female member of the Weasley family) so I slip out of my sweats and throw on a worn, fading black shirt. The familiar scent drifts around me, making its way into my lungs. It's him . . . it's just so entirely _him._

It's the only thing of Ron's that I have left.

And again, here come the tears . . . tears that seem like they'll never end. I thought that I'd cried myself dry two weeks ago. I was wrong. I can no longer stay in this bedroom. The bed I'm sitting on was where we first made love. The dark, orange-red walls remind me of his hair. The television in the corner reminds me of the day I first tried to explain its use to him. He is everywhere.

"Stop it." I have now resorted to reprimanding myself. Now I know how Harry and . . . well, I know how they must have felt listening to me nattering on about finishing assignments on time. "You made your choice. Now live with it. Besides, Ron doesn't love you. He never did. So grow up and get over him." The words are empty to my own ears. I know they are lies, and yet I so desperately need to believe them. Because if I don't . . . if I let myself even _think_ that there may be a shred of falsity to them, I'll back out. I'll back down, and I am _not_ going to do that. Not after everything that's happened.

Despite all of the thoughts tumbling around noisily in my mind, I hear a sound. Soft, but distinct. Familiar. _Clink_. It's the sound of something hard gently bouncing off of glass. It's the sound of Ron Weasley. I know this because he used to try this tactic during some of our more . . . _lengthy_ arguments. The ones where I'd refuse to even glance in his direction for weeks at a time. He'd throw rocks at my window to try and get me to talk to him. Well, mostly rocks. Once, he'd actually thrown a Quaffle. Regardless, I never bothered to tell him that it was a horrid Muggle cliché.

My head is trying to talk my heart out of actually going to the window, expecting him to be there. But my heart isn't the best of listeners. I have to be sure he really _isn't_ there. Because if he is . . . well, I don't know what will happen. I just have to make sure . . .

The December air chilling my bare legs is the only thing I feel. The empty lane is the only thing I see. He isn't here. I should have known this. But still . . . that _sound_. Something is stopping me from dismissing this ridiculous idea. I can't leave the window, because - _there!_ In the small pool of light shed by a streetlamp near my window is a single word scratched into the dry, grassless earth.

The word is "pond." I close my eyes, rub them, and open them again. The word is still there, scratched out in a slightly drooping pattern. I don't know if I actually wanted it to be gone or not.

"This is ridiculous! I'm getting _married_ tomorrow!" The words are out of my mouth, echoing into the still night before I even think about them.

I slam the window, narrowly avoiding my fingers. I am on edge now, that's for sure. My heart's racing, my hands are shaking. I sit down on my soft, maroon couch and cross my legs. I uncross them. I clasp my hands, and unclasp them, then clasp them again. I don't know what to do.

So I do the only thing that _feels_ right. I bolt off the couch and wrench open the door to the hall closet, grabbing an old pair of pants obviously kept for situations . . . well, maybe not situations _just_ like this one. After I'm more appropriately clothed, I pull on a brown hat and scarf, hastily button up my beige winter jacket, and dash out the door, all in a record two minutes.

Briskly, I make my way to Cranbury Pond, two blocks away from the flat I own in Muggle London. No question in my mind, it's the pond that Ron was referring to in his cryptic message. It's such a lovely place - a duck pond in the middle of London, surrounded by lush oak trees and a play area for young children. I used to dream about _our_ children frolicking around there, while Ron and I watched contentedly, sitting on a bench . . . perhaps sharing an ice cream. I used to let my imagination wander a lot.

At this time of night, the most prominent feature of the pond is a quaint wooden bridge, softly lit with ground-lights along its length. It is where I go to stand now, leaning over the edge. There isn't a sign of Ron, or anyone else for that matter. I feel like a fool, standing here all alone. I should be at home, adding the finishing touches to my wedding vows, making the last preparations for the procession —

There is a soft creaking of aging wood behind me. I am startled for a moment, before my whole body relaxes. I already know who it is. I speak before he does. "Why did you bring me here?"

I can sense his hesitation, the tenseness of his body. It's always been like that between us. I know how he's feeling, he knows if there's something wrong with me - it's a connection. A bond. One that I'm really going to miss.

His answer doesn't shock me. "Because I love you."

Finally, I turn to face him. He's standing there, this sheepish look on his face. Like he's already apologizing. There's a white lily (my favorite) in his right hand. His left hand is clenched, the knuckles are turning white. His clear, honest blue eyes are searching mine nervously, darting from left to right rapidly.

I'm allowing myself to fall into the familiar comfort that he offers - the security that comes with being so near to him. My own brown eyes survey him, take in every detail. From the wayward red lock of hair that's laying across his right temple, to the exact shape and fullness of his lips. It's all going to be lost to me after tonight . . .

Ron relaxes. He knows that he's hooked me, knows I'm not going to deny him. He takes an awkward step closer to me, reaching for my face. I close my eyes as he gently traces the curve of my cheek with his thumb. The other hand, the one with the lily, slides the flower into my own, laying limp at my side. "I love you, Hermione. Please, just spend tonight with me. No regrets."

Before his words have a chance to register in my mind, he bends down and suddenly, it's his lips that are doing all the persuading. They are soft, gentle, yet firm against my own. They are sure. He knows what he's doing. I feel a shudder run along my body as his tongue briefly encounters my mouth, making contact with the edge of my lower lip.

Through the haze suddenly obscuring my mind, I manage to get out, "Ron, I - I can't, it's wrong — "

He pulls away from me now. He looks off, into the distance. Buckingham Palace is shadowed against the lights of nighttime London. I can see the muscles of his jaw clenching. _Please, don't cry. Say anything, but I can't handle it if you cry . . . _

After a few seconds of heavy silence, he looks back down at me. His blue eyes, often the color of the sky, are dark now. They look like the deepest parts of the ocean. "Don't," he protests. "I want you with me tonight, Hermione. But not if you're going to regret it. Not if it's something you don't want."

I pretend to think about it. Pretend to chew on my bottom lip while I ponder the grave consequences of what I'm about to agree to. I even pretend to glance worriedly at Ron's face.

But I've known since the moment he showed up that I was going to be with this man tonight. There was never anything to consider. Never a second thought. My hesitation only stems from the guilt I know Ron is going to feel tomorrow when he wakes up.

After approximately two and a half seconds of "considering," I take Ron's hand and start walking back toward the direction of my flat.

The walk is absolutely silent. No one is out on the streets. We pass many apartment complexes, office buildings. Nobody sees us, and we probably wouldn't have cared if anyone _had_ spotted us. I, for one, know that the only thing on my mind was the man behind me. And how much I was going to have to hurt him in the morning.

We eventually make it to my building, and to my door. After flicking the light switch, I remove my coat and winter apparel. Ron is suddenly very still. I look at him oddly, and he just nods toward my body and mutters, "My shirt."

I can feel heat rise in my freezing cheeks as I answer him. "Yes . . . I sleep in it sometimes. You can have it back if you want." _Please say no, please don't ask for it back . . . _

"No," he says. "No it's okay. It looks better on you, anyway."

His words are slightly feral sounding. They make me shiver. He knows this, and advances toward me slowly. And now, I am lost to him. Lost to that look in his eyes, the one I know he gets right before he leads me into his bedroom. When he's near me, I grab his shoulders and kiss him, hard.

I am desperate for every second, every touch, every ounce of contact that I can have with this man tonight. Because I've missed him, and because I know that I'm going to miss him so much more after tonight.

Somehow, we end up in my bedroom. He has me against the wall; his hands are roaming and exploring, and I am ready to explode. He knows this, as well. He backs away, and I almost cry out from the loss of his lips against my skin. But he hooks one finger through the belt loop of my jeans, and starts walking backward toward my bed, drawing me with him.

Everything is _now_. It's happening _now_ and I don't want to stop. I don't ever want it to stop. I tell Ron that, and he just pushes deeper inside me, burying his face in my neck.

I feel so connected to him in this moment. Again, I beg him to never stop. Never stop giving me this _feeling_, this completeness, this _belonging_. I beg him not to, and he tries not to.

It's over in what seems to be a matter of minutes, though outside the sky is a lighter blue and the moon is fading. We lay with each other for a few minutes, enjoying the bliss of just _being_. And then I start to cry.

He thinks I don't know what he did that morning. Thinks I have no idea that he woke up sometime around 4:30 and watched me lay there for half an hour, pretending to sleep.

That he leaned over and kissed the corner of my mouth, before standing up and gathering his clothes. I felt him put the black shirt - his old black shirt - on the pillow beside me. Heard him grab a spare piece of parchment and a quill from my desk, and scratch something out. I wouldn't read that for another hour or so.

But when I did, this is what it said:

_Hermione,_

_I'm sorry for leaving without saying goodbye, but I thought it was best for the both of us. I love you and I always will, but I know you, and you're not going to back out of this wedding. I wouldn't ask you to. I know I've done some terrible things in the past. I only hope you can forgive me for them. And please - if he ever hurts you, you know where you can turn. Don't ever be sorry about last night . . . and always remember how much I love you._

_Ron_

I became Hermione Finnegan later that morning. And Ron _definitely_ thinks I have no idea that he stood at the back of that church, with a single tear making its lonely way down his face.

He doesn't know that I still love him.


End file.
